


(boys like) boys like me

by talking_tina



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Drunkeness, Elevators, Getting Stuck In Elevators, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talking_tina/pseuds/talking_tina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are worse places to be stuck with Gabe Saporta than an elevator, honestly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(boys like) boys like me

**Author's Note:**

> ehhhhh
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction using fictional characters based in the likenesses of real people. Never happened, and I do not own these names.

“Hey, Patrick! Wait up!”

Patrick doesn’t intend to wait up—in fact, he presses the door button repeatedly in hopes of closing the elevator before Gabe can make it, but the Latino manages to stick a foot in between the shutting doors in order to open them again. Patrick groans, biting his cheek and remaining quiet, as a half-drunk Gabe Saporta stumbles into the elevator with him.

“Hey, hey hey hey, _Rickster_ , what’s up, bro?” Gabe laughs and throws an arm around Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick stubbornly attempts to pull out of his grip—but before he can, the elevator suddenly lurches, and Gabe falls back of his own accord.

“The fuck?” Gabe asks. The lights flicker for a terrifying moment, before remaining on—however, the elevator doesn’t continue moving, nor open its doors. Patrick blinks, then groans again, hitting his head against the elevator wall.  
  
“You have _got_ to be kidding me. Fucking shit.”

Gabe looks mildly affronted and jerks his head back to peer at Patrick strangely. “Chill out, dude. At least you’ve got me, right?”

Patrick meets his eyes briefly before scoffing and looking away. “Yeah, I’ve got Gabe Saporta. A _drunk_ Gabe Saporta.”

Gabe snorts, unamused, before approaching him once again and throwing that same lanky arm over Patrick’s shoulder. “Dude, you know drunk-Gabe an’ sober-Gabe is practically the same person. I say I’m drunk half the time when I’m not _jus’_ so I can get away with stupid shit, yanno?”

Patrick just tries to shoulder him off again. There were lots of people he could tolerate when they got drunk, but Gabe was not one of them. Especially when Patrick himself hadn’t even had a sip of alcohol.

“Gabe,” he says instead, sternly, and Gabe looks mildly affronted, eyebrows furrowing.

“Dude, wha’s your problem? No need to be an asshole about a _friendly gesture_.”

“Nothing, just—we’re stuck in a motherfucking elevator, and you’re _drunk_.”

“You love me,” Gabe insists, now wrapping both arms around Patrick’s shoulders, and—oh no—yup, here they come, Gabe’s freakishly long octopus limbs wrapping around the blonde and Patrick _can’t breathe_  when he does that—

“Yo, Saporta— _Saporta_ —dude, back the fuck off, I can’t breathe,” he attempts, as Gabe drags him down to the floor with him. “Dude, I should probably, like, press the help button or whatever. Or call someone. Or you know, anything that doesn’t involve you wrapped around me like some kind of deformed spider-monkey.” He struggles, but he kind of knows it’s in vain. Gabe’s a skinny fucker, but he works out. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s got, like, two entire feet on Patrick, either.

“Yeah, how ‘bout _no_ ,” Gabe says, rubbing his cheek on top of Patrick’s head and off-setting his fedora. Patrick frowns. “Hey, you’re cozy. How come you’re so cozy? Why can’t Bill be all soft like you? He’s one bony motherfucker, no fun to cuddle.”

“ _You’re_ one bony motherfucker,” Patrick says, carefully avoiding the “soft” comment. He tries not to take it as a personal jab at his weight, but his cheeks still heat up and his legs automatically curl in. “Like. The least cozy person ever. Also, _Jesus_ , your skin is _burning,_ why are you so hot?”

Gabe replies before Patrick realizes his mistake. “Why, thank you,” he purrs, and Patrick rolls his eyes. “You’re not so bad yourself, cutie.”

“Yeah, no. We’re not having this conversation. Also, hey, we’ve talked about this. You need to stop with this whole octopus-armsy thing you’ve got going on.”

“I thought octopuses had legs?” Gabe inquires, and Patrick squirms at his moist breathe on his neck. Yeah, _ew_.

“Whatever. Arms. Legs. _Limbs_. Get them off of me.”

“But there’re no octopuses in here, silly goose. And hey, stop squirming.”

Patrick sighs theatrically. “ _Gabe_. Just let me—let me go, for Christ’s, sake—”

Suddenly, there’s a loud, jarring noise of metal grating against metal for a split second, and they both cringe—Patrick a second time for Gabe’s exclamation of “What the _fuck_ —” directly in his ear—but then the noise stops and the elevator jerks once before is restarts its original descent down a floor.

“Well, okay,” Patrick says to the gentle hum of a working elevator. “At least that worked out.”

He struggles half way out of Gabe’s shock-loose grip, trying to get himself to look mildly presentable before the elevator doors can open, and he only just manages to fix his fedora before the elevator comes to a halt and the dented metal doors slide open to reveal a certain Pete Wentz.

“Patrick, you’re—!” He starts, hands thrown up in the air, before his kohl-lined eyes taken in the scene and he freezes. “You’re, uh—uh-um…” He drops his arms and blinks. “Oh.”

“Pete,” Patrick starts frantically, finally managing to free himself completely from Gabe’s death grip and scrambling to his feet, ignoring how he knocks his knees into the floor and probably gives himself some pretty intense bruises. “So, we totally weren’t—at least, _I_ wasn’t—I mean, not that we were doing anything at all, but Gabe’s _drunk_ and you _know_ he’s a cuddler, and, uh—”

Pete’s gaze drags away from him and onto Gabe, who’s still slouched on the floor and now grinning brightly up at the other, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Hey, man. Yo, Patrick was totally not voluntary in this cuddle sesh, it’s all on me. But he’s under the impression that I’m an octopus. Crazy, right? You might wanna take ‘im to the doc for some brain scans or somethin’, yo.”

Patrick turns back to Pete with a pained look on his face. Yeah. Half-drunk _might_ have been an understatement.

Pete looks torn between either whipping out his cell phone and texting his entire contact list ‘ _guess who i just found getting it on in the elvtr guys’_ and robbing Gabe of all his precious purple hoodies and cheap three-dollar hipster sunglasses for even getting _near_ Patrick without his consent; eventually he just grins, and goes, “Duder, you totally just made out with Gabe Saporta, didn’t you.”

Gabe snorts a laugh and Patrick stubbornly states, “We did _not_ make out!”

Pete sticks out a foot as the doors begin to close again, and continues, going, “Gabe’s drunk, and you just made out with him, and you’re dating Elisa and she’s gonna _love_ this, aw, man—this shit is fucking gold, I’m so glad I waited down here for you—oh, come here you little squirt, don’t be so uptight—”

Patrick is pulled into am embrace entirely too tight for the second time in ten minutes, and then squeals when Pete hefts him up and gravity shifts forward slightly. He kicks and yells and Pete laughs before setting him down again, Gabe dragging himself to his feet behind them. “See, Pete? He is _entirely_ unharmed. Just as squeal-y as normal. Still migh’ wanna get ‘im a brain scan, though.” He chews thoughtfully on his lip. “Anyways, I’m outta here. Saporta, out.”

And with that he salutes and swerves around them and down the hall, presumably to his hotel room so he can harass Nate and Alex and generally people who aren’t Patrick.

“I,” Patrick starts, histrionically, staring after him, “strongly dislike that man. Remind me how you guys ever talked me into producing their record?”

“He talked music with you, dude. You know how you get when people start talking music with you. You go all hyper and throw around all this fancy-ass musical vocabulary and generally turn into the happiest dude ever. So.” Pete shrugged.

 “Yeah, well, I’d be happier if he wasn’t wrapping his freakish little octopus arms around me at every given opportunity.” At this, Patrick raises his hands and wriggles around his fingers in what Pete thinks is supposed to be in the same fashion as Gabe’s arms, which, whoa, totally not a cool image. “I can’t breathe when he does that.”

“Yeah, well. It’s Saporta.” Pete shrugs his hoodie-covered shoulders. “Anyways. Want to go get waffles?”

Patrick blinks. “It’s, like, midnight.” He sniffs at Pete’s jacket. “And you smell like beer.”

“Yeah. So do you wanna go get waffles?”

Patrick hesitates, but then he takes in the owl-ish, insomnia-driven look in Pete’s eyes he’s seen a thousand times before while in buses and vans and stranger’s living room floors, and knows Pete just wants some goddamn waffles. And Patrick thinks that maybe he deserves some, too.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, let’s get out of here and find some waffles. I was just leaving anyway.”


End file.
